When tour rehearsals started, Raine was raring to go. For probably the first time in her career, she arrived early instead of on time (or late), dressed in simple clothing that didn’t look like her day-to-day. Instead, she had on a pair of beige slacks and a simple blouse with flat shoes. With her, she brought her notes, including her notebook with lyrics and music. In case there would be technical difficulties, she had the tracks on her phone as well. Although she’d been practicing at home a little, doing it in the rehearsal space with her crew would help it sink in fully, making her ready to go on the road.
When she walked in, she immediately owned the space.
It was in a warehouse in Culver City that Crushed Velvet Records either used or owned—she wasn’t sure—but she felt comfortable in the space, because she’d been there before. It wasn’t pretty but it did the trick, and she felt like she belonged.
Even though she knew the words to the songs, she didn’t have them memorized—but four weeks of rehearsal would take care of that. Thus far, the label had only put together one leg of a tour that would take six weeks, starting and ending in Los Angeles at mostly intimate venues. And Mal had sent her a text two days earlier: The shows in NYC and Vegas are sold out.
She didn’t know that she even wanted more dates for the tour—and she was prepared to advocate for herself if the label pushed her. The album already had a record number of pre-orders, and the tour would only help it sell more, but she didn’t know that she’d have to be on tour for months and months to support it.
It didn’t need that much.
Critics who’d received early versions were already raving about the work, saying that this was a “mature version of Raine Dennison we didn’t know we’d been longing for” and “these songs will hit hard,” along with other varying levels of acceptance. One critic had even said that, if her scandal last August was what it had taken for her to write songs “with this sort of depth,” he hated to say he was glad it had happened.
Only one reviewer even mentioned Quentin’s involvement.
It wasn’t fair to Quentin because, even though she still felt the sting of his rejection, he’d been a big part of it. Not only had he helped her find inspiration, but he’d pushed her to be better, to dig deeper. He’d made her realize that just giving her fans superficial regurgitations of songs they’d already heard was cheating them and herself. He deserved some credit—and she’d likely say in passing in future interviews that he had been quite helpful.
But she would not talk about the supposed break up. They could speculate all they wanted, but she wouldn’t indulge those conversations.
Her band was also in the warehouse, tuning instruments and sipping coffee. She hadn’t seen them since the night in August when she collapsed on stage—but each one responded to her respectfully and her track operator, a woman just a few years older, gave her a hug and told her she was excited about the new music.
There was also a full crew, including a new tour manager—and a meeting like this wouldn’t be complete if it didn’t have good old Mal. But at least he was on the sidelines, looking at his phone.
They discussed the set list for the show, which included every single song from the new album and a few fan favorites from old ones. At one point, Mal said, “This is good…but maybe you should start with ‘Mean Girl.’ Your fans will expect it.”
Raine allowed a small smile to cross her face but kept her voice firm. “I know—and that’s why we’ll be playing it second. But we’re going with the first single because I want them to know this tour is all about the new album.”
Mal only raised his brown eyebrows and said, “Okay, you’re the boss.”
Hmm. Up until this point, she’d thought their relationship had only changed from her perspective, but it seemed as if Mal was finally getting onboard. If he continued behaving like this, maybe they could have a long working relationship.
“Before we play through the whole set list, is there any particular song anyone wants to go over? Any questions you want to ask?”
Her guitarist, a blond guy in his late twenties, said, “I’m assuming you’re gonna want to play the acoustic now and then on some of the new tracks—or did you want me to handle that?”
Raine felt something blooming in her chest as she realized the vibes here were today so different. This wasn’t like their last tour rehearsal a couple of years ago. It had been chaotic and angry and messy—and she and her crew had had frequent fights.
This was like night and day.
“Thanks for asking. I’m not sure yet. Let’s play it by ear and try it both ways. We’ll figure it out.”
A short nod told her he’d received the message.
After an hour, they were running through the last three songs of the setlist. One of the last songs was one from her second album, an upbeat fun tune called “Harmony.” But it had always been her intent for the music to be a little gloomier in juxtaposition to the lyrics. She’d always imagined the discord would give the song some weight, because it was one of those songs that people had always assumed was about happiness. Instead, she’d meant for the song to signify how a person maintains the peace just so she didn’t have to have another discussion.
So she said, “I want to play ‘Harmony’ a little different. Let’s try shifting from major to minor chords where we can, and let’s slow it down, play it softer.”
The band members looked a little curious, but they all nodded their assent and willingness to try. The music director said, “I don’t think that’s a good idea. People love this song because it’s so upbeat.”
“And it doesn’t quite fit that way with this setlist—so this is the best of both worlds. We’re going to play it this way.”
“Okay. It’s your show.”
And they started to play it, working through the kinks of doing it differently—but, after another hour, they were all happy with it.
Especially Raine.
When they took a fifteen-minute break, Raine’s smile slipped when she went to the bathroom. Looking in the mirror, she remembered how she’d told herself she would stop looking back, and yet here she was thinking about Quentin again, wishing he could have been there.
